


The angel of small deaths

by gooseontheloose



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Character Death, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Klaus Hargreeves, Immortality, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Klaus cannot stop dying, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Overdosing, POV God, POV Klaus Hargreeves, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Thats a fun tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:27:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28873815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseontheloose/pseuds/gooseontheloose
Summary: From the moment that The Girl first sees him, She can tell that this is going to be difficult, that he is going to be difficult. She doesn’t have the patience for difficult things.“I don’t like you.” She tells him.He doesn’t reply. He’s only a baby after all.With a weighted sigh, and haze of light and colour, bursting across the grey sky, She sends him back.Klaus is born dead. Things only get harder from there.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves & God, Klaus Hargreeves/David "Dave" Katz, Klaus Hargreeves/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 62
Kudos: 263





	1. Chapter 1

When he was born, he wasn’t breathing. His skin was slightly blue, beneath the gunk of birth, his tiny features scrunched into a silent cry. No sound came out. The doctors moved quickly, with fancy, expensive equipment and CPR procedures, and a long syringe, chock full of adrenaline, swaddling his rapidly cooling skin in thick, starchy blankets. It wasn’t enough. He was born, to a woman who didn’t want him, or anything like him, who had never imagined something like this would happen to her, who saw an ironic sort of justice in the idea that this baby, this thing, that had suddenly and unexpectedly bloomed inside her, was never even alive in the first place. For that reason, it was no great surprise that his last breath came before his first. It was too late when they started to resuscitate him, because he was already dead.

* * *

_The Girl is on Her bicycle, one foot resting on the pedal, framed in monochrome. She stares at the baby. He’s small, too small. She can see the blue tinge to his skin, even Here. He stares at Her, with big, pale eyes, wrapped in the hospital blanket. He’s not even crying, he’s just watching. It strikes Her strangely that She is the first thing he has ever seen._   
_It’s not his time, it won’t be for a while. It’s not his fault, how could it be? Life hasn’t even truly begun yet, but She still feels the phantom twisting of frustration that accompanies a mistake. A soul out of place. He is very much out of place. It will take a long time for him to slot into place, and even then, it will never be perfect. Few things are, even for beings like Her. He has a greater purpose, one he can’t even comprehend yet, and somehow, She can tell this is going to be difficult, can tell that he is going to be difficult. She doesn’t have the patience for difficult things._

_“I don’t like you.” She tells him._

_He doesn’t reply, he’s only a baby after all._

_With a weighted sigh, and haze of light and colour, bursting across the grey sky, She sends him back._

* * *

Number Four was not a quiet child. It was like he was doing his best to make up for those few minutes of silence in the beginning. Even before he could properly talk, he’d babble away, gurgle with laughter. He’d also cry louder and longer than any of his siblings, until his face was red and his throat was raw.  
And then when he could speak, little changed. He’d laugh and joke, and chatter away at the dinner table, long after their father had ordered them to be silent. He’d make up elaborate stories, far beyond the ones they were learning to read, tracing letters with their fingertips, and Grace’s steady guidance. The stories didn’t sit well just bottled up in his chest, so he’d serenade his siblings, following them around their vast house if they didn’t want to sit and listen. And when none of the living would lend an ear, he was forever humming melodies he shouldn’t know, or whispering to the shadows in snippets of languages he’d never spoken.  
He wasn’t a quiet child, even when the ghosts were broadly friendly. He saw them as friends, as extra playmates. He never knew what they saw him as. A tether to the world of the living? An annoyance? A vessel to something more? He didn’t know. And he didn’t really care.

They didn’t become unfriendly all at once. It wasn’t as simple as that. Life (and death) were rarely black and white. The ghosts with evil glinting in their hollow eyes had always lurked at the edges of it. The ghosts with smudges of regret and pain and malice has always existed. He’d probably always seen them. It’s just that suddenly, the ghosts dripping in evil, and torment, with sinews loose and blood stained smiles, were all he saw. Maybe it came with age, with understanding of morality, of good and evil. Maybe something pure had held them off at first, until he wasn’t pure enough for that sort of protection anymore.  
Whatever caused it, they came in their droves, with haunted moans and pained cries.  
And he couldn’t hold them off. He wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t brave enough.  
So he screamed and screamed and screamed.  
But they screamed back louder, and stronger, and longer. Their screams were visceral, and informed by decades of pain and regret. He couldn’t compete with that.  
And the walls of the house felt like they were closing in, tighter and tighter, suffocating him with fear burrowing into his chest, choking him out.

There was one ghost, with a mangled face, and empty eyes, the hole in its head between them so deep and bloody that he could see out the other side. It wouldn’t leave. It couldn’t speak. It just gurgled and coughed and choked, drowning on its own blood over and over. But sometimes it would smile at him, something like recognition passing over its distorted features. He hated it. He hated it and feared it in equal parts.  
It moved slowly, dragging its bludgeoned limbs behind it. When he was downstairs with the others, or playing in the garden, he could almost escape it, he could almost forget it. But it would always be there again, lurking in the shadowy corners, when he returned to his room. And it would smirk, like it was greeting an old friend. It made him sick to his stomach.  
And one day, he couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t take the moans and the coughs, and the bubbling sound that could almost be laughter.

So he ran.

He’d always been faster than his siblings, Number Five not included, because zipping from place to place didn’t actually count as running. Number One could run for longer, stamina seeping through his strong limbs, but Number Four was more wirey, more nimble. Especially then, when something more than mindless competition motivated him. He set off through the garden, ripping past the tree, stumbling over the uneven cobbles in his hurry, burrowing himself under the gap in the outer wall that he’d discovered a few weeks previously. He needed to get out. He needed to go far, far away, somewhere the ghost wouldn’t, or couldn’t follow.

Out on the street for the first time in his life, he barely even paused for breath, barely even took it all in. It was loud, loud with a mixture of the living and the dead, all bustling and speaking and shouting. There were strange sounds, mechanical whirrings, like a clock winding up, and low-pitched purring from the centre of the road. Tall metal poles towered overhead, and bathed the dark street in patches of light. It was strangely beautiful, nothing like anything he’d ever seen before. Less than an instant later, he was sure he heard a familiar gurgle, right in his ear, and he set off like a shot again, like a bullet from a gun, like a knife from Number Two’s shaking grasp.  
He didn’t see it coming. He wouldn’t have understood, even if he had.

All he heard was a screeching sound, like a far off wail of despair, getting closer and louder, and more palpable. And then he was blinded, by bright white lights, searing into his vision, and hurtling towards him.  
And then.  
The impact.

* * *

_The Girl sighs, fingertips running along the edge of the bicycle bell that isn’t. She can’t feel it, it doesn’t have a texture after all, nothing here does. That’s just a side effect of this sort of existence._   
_He’s making his way towards Her, stumbling down the path, with a confused sort of look on his face. He’s shorter than Her still, by a good half a foot, so he has to peer up at Her, eyes big and curious. They’re still green, blindingly so, against the washed-out backdrop of Her world. He’s wearing a neat uniform, although one sock is up, and the other is down. It’s as lopsided as he himself is, although he probably isn’t aware of that yet._

_“Where am I?” He asks, chewing on his lip, sort of nervously, eyeing the trees with a childish wonder. He is still a child after all. She has to remind herself of that fact._

_“Where do you think?”_

_“Is this the outside world?” He asks, eyes still wide with curious wonder, although he folds his arms, slightly defensively across his chest._

_“Well, it’s outside of the world, that’s for sure.” She replies, cryptically._

_“Can I have a go on your bike?”_

_She blinks down at him, tightening Her hands around the handlebars that aren’t._   
_“No.”_

_“But I’ve never ridden a bike before.” He pouts, jutting out his lower lip._

_“All the more reason that you shouldn’t. Wouldn’t want you to damage it, or yourself.”_

_“I won’t. I pinky promise.” He extends one of his hands, with fingers that are very likely sticky._

_“That means nothing to me.” She replies, with a jagged sigh. He’s starting to irritate Her, as children often do. She made it that way, but sometimes She wonders if things couldn’t be different. Maybe next time around._

_“You’re supposed to share. Dad always tells us to share.”_

_The thought of sharing anything with a human is not pleasant._

_“I’m sending you back.” She informs him. “You’ve come far too early.”_

_“Back?” He narrows his eyes at Her, in a suspicious look that doesn’t all the way suit a six year old, “Will It still be there?”_

_“What, do you mean the ghost?”_

_He nods._

_And She sighs. She really ought not to make these sorts of concessions, but the less She sees of him, the better._

_“If I make the ghost go away, do you promise to stay a little longer this time? Try a little harder? We can’t keep meeting like this.”_

_He blinks at her, gears in his childish mind turning. He likely doesn’t even fully understand what he’s agreeing to. She’s not really in the mood to explain it all, not if She doesn’t have to, not that She ever really has to do anything._

_And then finally he says, “I pinky promise.”_

_“Well, back you go then.”_

_He nods, solemnly, taking one last look around. “Goodbye pretty girl who won’t share her bike.”_

_And in a haze of light, She is alone once more._


	2. Chapter 2

Klaus was sort of fuzzy. Okay, Klaus was very fuzzy. Everything tilted and swayed, like he was on a boat, not that he had any point of reference for what that felt like. He swung his legs over the kitchen counter, heaving himself into an upright position, twisting his legs so they crossed over each other. The kitchen wasn’t quiet, even then. The sounds were fuzzier, the wails and the moans sounded more like he was underwater, than like they were screaming right in his ear.

There were a few exceptions to his newfound peace and quiet.

“Help us Klaus.” A thing that used to be an old woman whispered, so close to his ear that he’d be able to feel its hot breath in his ear, if it had that still.  
“You have to help us.”

It was quieter than most, less visceral and violent in its tactics. But it got so close. So close that it almost felt like it was residing in his skin, wearing it like a second layer of clothing. He hated it. Maybe even more than he hated the older ones, the ones driven insane by death, by being whatever they became after they stopped being alive.

“What do you want?” He asked, voice almost cracking in his desperation. “What can I even do?”

“You know what” The thing replied, and he could tell without looking that it was wearing that wicked smile.

And Klaus didn’t know. He really, really didn’t. If he did, he’d do it. He’d do anything to make them go away.

The thing was then somehow closer. It lurked at the edge of his vision, murmuring so softly that he couldn’t quite make out the words.  
He could see others, circling around like vultures, flickering between states of being. Their eyes burnt into him, and he hated it.

He took another heavy gulp of Dad’s whiskey, and grimaced at the way it burnt, the way it made his eyes well with tears. He’d got the idea from some book he shouldn’t have been reading, compounded by the mocking of the remnants of a man, harrowed by alcoholism.  
It seemed to be working.  
The thing sounded fuzzier still, after that next sip. And Klaus might have felt dizzier, but it was a price he was willing to pay. The ends justified the means, as Dad might have said.

He took another swig, and another, and another, in such quick succession that he was practically necking the bottle, and the burning feeling blurred into one.  
And then he was coughing, choking and spluttering, the nausea in his stomach twisting. The bottle was suddenly so heavy in his hand, and as he hacked, desperately trying to clear the bubbling sickness from his throat, it slipped from his grip.

For such an expensive bottle, it shattered easily on the tiles.  
The amber liquid pooled around the shards of glass, seeping steadily into the cracks on the floor.  
Klaus had stopped coughing.  
The first thing he noticed, other than the wooliness in his skull, was the silence.  
It was beautiful.  
  


Dad was less than impressed.

“What is the meaning of this, Number Four?”

“Made ghosts go away.” He tried to reply, although his response came out rather more slurred than he would’ve liked.

“Are you intoxicated, Number Four?”

“Well… yeah.” He tried to slide off the counter and stand, but his legs were more wobbly than he realised. He thought he might look like a baby deer. Being ‘intoxicated’ was sort of funny. In fact, it was very funny. The thing that used to be a man didn’t mention that part. It was funny, and it was blissfully, beautifully silent. Nothing lurking on his peripheral, no wet voices in his ear. Even the thing wearing an old lady’s face was gone.

Another figure shuffled into the kitchen, and stood at Dad’s side.  
“Pogo!” Klaus exclaimed, delighted. He liked Pogo, he had kind eyes.

“Number Four.” Pogo replied, with a sad, almost disappointed expression on his face.  
Klaus thought that was kind of funny, because Pogo only called them their numbers when Dad was around. Different standards for different occasions. He also didn’t really understand why Pogo looked so disappointed, and Dad looked so angry. He knew in the abstract that he wasn’t supposed to drink Dad’s whiskey, but it had helped him. He needed it. It made sense. It made everything quiet. And it wasn’t his fault that everything was so loud.

“Why are you intoxicated?” Dad asked, and it felt like sort of a stupid question.

“Because I drank the whiskey? Catch up.”

He wasn’t expecting to be backhanded across the face. So much so, in fact, that he crumpled to the ground, hitting it on sort of a funny angle. His leg felt kind of strange, but then his legs felt strange already.  
His face stung, like he’d been slapped, which was the opposite of ironic, because he had.

“You are not a thief, nor are you a drunk, Number Four. You are better than this.”

Klaus couldn’t help thinking that maybe he wasn’t.

Dad hauled him to his feet, grip punishingly tight around his upper arm.

“Ouch.” He moaned, sort of flopping about as his body refused to respond correctly.

“Oh, do stop complaining, Number Four, you’ve brought this upon yourself.” Dad paused, “A time in the mausoleum might do you good, teach you some manners.”

“No. No. Please, no. I’m Sorry.” Klaus babbled, digging his heels into the ground. Dad was surprisingly strong, paying him virtually no mind, as he dragged Klaus across the front lawn, and towards the crypt.

Pogo opened the door, wrinkled features twisted into something like concern, as Klaus wailed and screamed and begged.

“Don’t leave me in there. I’m scared. I’m so scared. Please.”

“You must overcome this ridiculous fear, Number Four. Your cowardice is weakness, and I will not tolerate weakness.”

Klaus’ cheek ached, and his arm ached, and his throat ached, and somewhere deep down, his heart ached. But that was second to the fear he felt, sudden and all encompassing. He hated the mausoleum. Hated it so much that it hurt.  
Dad had only left him there a handful of times, and each time, Klaus emerged a shell of a person. Each time, Klaus trembled, and hurt, and sobbed. Because Klaus was weak. Klaus was a coward.

Dad sort of flung him in there, letting him tumble down the stone steps, in a way that would probably leave bruises across his back. He didn’t care. He just needed to get out. Needed to get out before they came back again. He scrambled to his feet, and launched himself up the steps, but he was too late. The door was already locked, and he was alone again.

It didn’t take long for the effect of the alcohol to wear off.  
It didn’t take long for Klaus, huddled in the corner, trying to ease his shuddering sobs, to hear them again.  
It didn’t take long for the silence to give way to something much, much worse.

He didn’t know how long had passed, as he pressed the heels of his hands against his ears, eyes scrunched shut, head against his knees, as he curled up, tighter and tighter, wishing he could just stop existing altogether.

And then he felt it.

Fingertips, brushing against his jaw, tilting his chin upwards.  
He opened his eyes.  
Something evil stared back.

And Klaus screamed. He screamed and he screamed, and he screamed.  
No one who cared heard.  
The evil thing smiled wider.

And Klaus couldn’t breathe. He suddenly forgot how to be, how to exist.  
And he screamed and he screamed, and he screamed, until his vision blurred.  
Only then did the screaming stop.

* * *

_The Girl is not happy. Feelings are relative for a thing like Her, but unhappy is a prudent way to put it. He’s back again, still much, much too soon. It seems that he’s broken his promise. Typical for a human, but still no less frustrating. He looks older now, a slump in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. As he ventures closer, she can see that his hands are trembling, just slightly._

_“What are you?” He asks, his fear palpable._

_“What a rude question. I suppose it’s no matter that we’ve met before.”_

_“We have?” His features knit together, as he tries to puzzle it out, make sense of all his jumbled memories. She doesn’t usually leave the encounters intact, not that She does this sort of thing very often, but She wanted him to remember his promise. Of course, that seemed to make little difference._

_“It was only four of your years ago, I thought you might have remembered. It’s no matter though.”_

_“If you say so.”_   
_He stares up at the trees, tilting his head so far backwards that She wonders if he will topple over. She can see the tracks of his own fingernails, which clawed against his skin, the redness stark against the pale backdrop. They’ll fade soon enough. Time passes differently Here, after all._

_“You need to be more careful.”_

_“Oh. Do I?” He replies tauntingly, and his insolence angers Her._   
_He doesn’t know anything, clearly. He hasn’t a single clue about how things work. She will not be the one to teach him._

_“There are only so many times that I am willing to do this.”_

_“And what is ‘this’?”_

_“Sending you back. I have other things I could be doing.”_   
_The time spent Here doesn’t take away from the time spent in other places. It isn’t linear like that, but it’s more the principle than anything._

_“Sending me back? So where am I?” His eyes are narrowed, like he’s still struggling to understand._

_“You haven’t figured it out by now?”_

_“I think I’m starting to.”_

_“Well, about time. Perhaps you aren’t as foolish as you look.”_

_He smiles at that, even though She didn’t mean it as a joke. She doesn’t joke. It’s just not the sort of thing She does._

_“Can I stay a while?”_

_“What on earth do you mean?”_   
_Okay, perhaps She does joke, in Her own way._

_“Can I stay for a bit, before you send me back?”_

_“Why?”_

_“I like it here. It’s quiet.”_

_She scrutinises him, for a long moment. “Alright. As long as you don’t bother me.”_

_“I won’t. You won’t even notice I’m here.”_

_She finds that hard to believe, but an agreement is an agreement. She rests Her not bicycle against one of the not trees, and watches him, with careful eyes._

_He lies back down on the ground, almost instantly, staring at the big grey sky overhead, his arms flopping against the not cobbles of the not pathway. He almost looks peaceful, a tiny little smile appearing on his face. It twists something inside Her, something best left alone._   
_He can’t stay for too long of course, not just because She doesn’t want him Here, cluttering up the place, but also because it’s dangerous for a human to be stuck Here for too long. It would lead to all sorts of messiness._

_“It’s about time you got going, then.”_

_He sits up, and nods. “The sky was getting boring.”_

_“I hope I won’t see you again.”_

_And his face twists into something like morbid understanding. “I wouldn’t count on it.”_

_In a flash, he is gone again._   
_He’s probably right. He probably will be back._   
_And She doesn’t like the sound of that at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

“Klaus. Klaus.”  
A voice hissed, from deep underwater. It sort of sounded like a balloon deflating, like a bicycle tyre with a hole in it. Not that Klaus had ever experienced that. (No thanks to certain little girl). He was trying to have a little doze, a little siesta, and he didn’t appreciate being disturbed.  
“Klaus!”

“Hmmm- I’m up!”  
His eyes snapped open, and it took a moment for everything to come into focus. The first thing he saw was Luther’s face, stretched into a scowl, much too close to his own for comfort. Klaus considered the merits of leaning up and biting his nose to get him to back off, but changed his mind quickly, on account of the whole ‘super-strength’ thing.

“What do you mean, you’re up?”

He was almost catlike as he stretched out his long limbs. “I really don’t know how to dumb that one down for you, Luther darling.”

“You’re supposed to be lookout!”

“Okay… What’s the problem, did I miss something?” He asked, with a lazy sort of smile resting on his lips. The smile didn’t quite fit the tone of the conversation, but his brain was just slightly disconnected from why.

“Are you high right now?” He didn’t even wait for an answer, which Klaus thought was quite rude. He probably guessed from the haze of Klaus’ eyes. “Oh my god. You’re high.”  
Luther was very loud. He had all sorts of feelings about everything, which Klaus thought sounded frankly exhausting. He had feelings about being the ‘leader’, he had feelings about everyone’s job in the group, he had feelings about Alison (which was just plain weird). Klaus had always thought, the less feelings the better. That’s what he liked about being high. He had far fewer feelings to worry about.

“I’m not—” He began, half hearted, in what was a barely functional fib.

Luther growled, all visceral, dragging Klaus up by his shoulders, trying to hold him mid-air, even though Klaus was a full four inches taller than him (take that Number One). “Don’t lie to me.”  
Klaus let his body flop, in a possum like defensive mechanism. For anyone except Luther, Klaus becoming a dead weight (hah), would’ve probably had some effect.

“Stop manhandling him Luther, Jesus.”

“My Knight in shining armour!” Klaus exclaimed.

“Maybe if he stops doing drugs when we have missions.” Klaus received a bemused look from his brother. “He’s high Diego.” Luther said, by way of explanation.

“What the hell Klaus, you idiot. We could’ve died.”  
Diego’s exasperation felt somewhat unfairly misplaced, but Klaus couldn’t be bothered to contemplate it further. All this talk of death and dying was making him itch slightly.

“But you didn’t.” He shrugged, or tried to, which was difficult with Luther still suspending him in mid-air. “Alls fair in love and war.” He added, for emphasis.

“That’s not the point, and you know it.”

Did he know it? He wasn’t quite sure. Something he was sure of was that they all needed to relax. Smoke some weed maybe. He had plenty to go around. Well actually, as of that morning, that wasn’t exactly true.

“You’re killing my buzz.”  
It was less of a buzz, and more of a languid feeling, a bone melting silence. Klaus loved it. Loved the weightlessness, loved the easy passive smile it left on his face, loved the fact that he could be alone. Utterly and completely alone, with not a single mardy ghost around to ruin it.

“I don’t care, Klaus. You need to stop doing this. It’s stupid, and selfish and reckless and—”

“Save us the lecture, Number One.”  
Diego was on the defensive. Klaus didn’t suppose for a moment that it was about protecting him. It was more about Diego’s own ego, which was fair enough. They all had to have hobbies. Diego and Luther liked to bicker, and Klaus liked to not be haunted by the tormented remnants of the dead

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
Luther let go of Klaus, and he dropped, not all that gracefully to the ground.

“I think one of Dad is enough, don’t you?”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“It sounded to me like you were. ”

“Well I wasn’t.”

And they glared at each other, all alpha macho man posturing, shoulders tilted back, nostrils flared. They looked like baboons, from that nature channel documentary he watched with Vanya. Baboons about to throw shit at each other. Poor Pogo.

Klaus couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled out of him.

“Jesus Klaus, pull yourself together.”

“I’m all the way together.” He protested, jovially. “I’m not even that high.” He stage whispered.  
Weed was hardly even a drug, anyhow. Weed and a couple of (completely legal mind you) painkillers weren’t exactly something to write home about.

“You still put us all in danger.”  
Klaus decided not to point out that the danger would be there, with or without him, and that all of them amounted to Diego, who’d been throwing knives since he could grip things in his hand, Luther, who was some kind of glorified strong man, Alison, who could literally make anyone do anything, and Ben, who carried hell itself around in his stomach. There wasn’t really much that ghosty McGubbins could add to that.

“Danger schmeneger. You’re big boys now, you can look after yourselves. If anything, I’d be the damsel in distress in this story. I’ve got the legs for it.”

“What.” Luther and Diego said at the same time, instantly turning to glare at each other again.

“Good chat, boys. We should really do this again sometime.”

They didn’t say it back, which struck Klaus as more than a little rude.  
He could feel something building up, some great reckoning, or intervention, or something, and he was so utterly not in the mood.

Thankfully, Allison and Ben chose that moment that make their grand entrance, or rather, exit from the building, into the alleyway where the brotherly bonding was happening.

“Benny!” He greeted his brother with a wide smile, grateful for the shift of attention.

“Hi.” Ben replied, eyes trained on the floor.  
Klaus did his best to ignore the blood, and more than blood, coating Ben, from head to toe. It would dry in his hair all tacky, Klaus knew that for a fact.

“You’re a bit mucky.” He said, because he couldn’t seem to help himself. “You’d better not use all the hot water, I’m warning you.”

“Hmm” Ben was always a little dazed after days like that. Klaus couldn’t even imagine. Couldn’t even imagine what seeing that, what doing that, would do to a person. He saw the aftermath sometimes, saw the ghosts, ripped in two, torn and tattered, in the corner of his peripheral. It was nothing a zoot couldn’t fix, of course. Out of sight, out of mind.  
And he didn’t want to imagine. He smoked for a reason.

“Well, you’re washing first, and when I have a bath, I always use all the hot water, so I’m hoping you won’t.” He said, by way of rambling explanation.

“I promise.”

  
Klaus’ bath that evening was hotter than normal, if anything.  
It made him wonder if Ben used any water at all.  
He didn’t have any of his nice strawberry soap left, so he stole some of Allison’s. Hers smelt nicer anyhow, less of chemicals, and more like actual coconuts or whatever. There were less bubbles though.

Luther had told their father, which was so bitterly unfair. Didn’t he know that snitches get stitches? Klaus had the fresh bruises, splattered across his ribcage, to remind him.  
Not that getting beaten with a cane made him any less likely to do drugs. Those two things didn’t seem to have any correlation at all. If anything, he’d just smoked more after that. Weed was a pain reliever after all, probably. He also took quite a few painkillers. More than he could reasonably justify.  
In fact, he’d smoked so much, and taken so much, that he could barely even keep his eyes open. His vision was dancing, electric in a way that he loved and hated in equal amounts.

And the water felt so nice.

He sunk into it, boneless, letting it lap up around his chin.  
The hot water, the way it made him feel, just the right side of dizzy and faint? It was better than drugs. But then again, maybe that was the drugs talking.

He slipped further down into the tub, until the water was touching the tip of his nose. The smell of the soap wasn’t any stronger, up close.  
Klaus’ head felt funny, sort of like it was full of cotton, but also leaden, and so heavy that his neck could barely support its weight.  
He let it sort of flop down, and he felt sort of like a paperchain person, all fragile and easy to tear all of a sudden.

Drowning was nowhere near as painful as he thought it could be. When it came to it, the water settling in his lungs tasted just like coconuts.

* * *

  
_The Girl taps Her foot, impatient.  
He’s really taking his time, stretching himself out, like a cat in the sun, on the not path. Sometimes She wonders what the illusion of cobblestone feel like to humans. Probably like nothing. Nothing around Here feels like anything.  
He has soap bubbles clinging to his curly hair, and the beginnings of bruises dusted over his skin, and he’s as naked as the day he was born. He seems strangely unphased by it, which is a rarity for humans, who always seem far too concerned with trivial matters like the amount of fabric draped on their bodies. _

_“What are you doing here, again?”  
He really is impossible. This whole charade seems as though it’s becoming a pattern, every four human years or so, he’s back again, getting soap, or some equivalent, all over the place. _

_“So you are real! I thought it was some kind of lucid dream!”  
He’s standing far too close to Her. She takes a step back.  
“I think I drowned.” He adds,, sounding entirely too unbothered by that fact. _

_“Rather careless of you, really.”_

_“Hey! That’s no way to talk to the recently deceased. I’m in mourning.” He pouts, play acting at being shy, and glancing at the ground. “And I’m naked.” He adds, sounding taken aback, as if it’s only just occurred to him._

_“That you are.” She agrees, impassively._

_He grins, in a way that makes him look slightly feral. “Like what you see?” And then, almost instantaneously, “Sorry, that’s weird, isn’t it? You’re like eleven.”_

_“I am not.”_

_“Yeah, I didn’t think so. How old are you?”_

_“I really don’t see how that’s any of your business.”  
There’s no way She’d be able to explain it in terms that make sense to him, even if She had any desire to do so. _

_“It’s not, but you could tell me anyway.”_

_She adjusts the thing that appears to be a flower, which is tucked into Her hat, to delay having to respond. He really is insufferable, and it only seems to get worse with age.  
“I could, but I don’t particularly want to.”_

_“Fine, you win, Little Miss Grumpy Guts.” He sticks his tongue out Her, in an unsurprisingly juvenile display. “Will the water be cold when I get back?”_

_“That’s entirely likely.”_

_“I’m going to have to run a new one.” He sounds more ticked off about that than he did about the concept of dying. It’s worrying, to say the least._

_“Try to stay above the water this time.”_

_He clucks. “Now where’s the fun in that?”_

_Even after he’s gone, the scent of coconuts hangs in the air, in a way that isn’t actually possible._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and let me know what you think!!!


	4. Chapter 4

Klaus wasn’t a drug addict.  
It was such an ugly concept, the idea of actually, really being addicted to something, needing something so badly that it hurt. He was dependent on his methods, maybe. He was dependent on keeping the worst of the ghosts at bay. But addicted? No way.  
It was mostly just drinking and smoking anyway. Since the bout with the painkillers, he tried to only take something stronger every other day. He only ventured out of the walls of his home, searching for it, once or twice a week at most. It was a good system he had. Practically full proof.  
But it wasn’t like he even actually needed a system. He didn’t need some set of rules to restrain, or control himself. He had self-control, even if he didn’t use it very often. And he could’ve stopped any time he wanted to.  
They were all just party drugs anyway. Just molly, or coke, or speed. Nothing actually dangerous. Nothing actually addictive.  
And he didn’t need them. The weed and the alcohol, that was all he needed. Anything else was just for fun, just something to add a bit of dimension to it.  
He quite liked the person he became when he was high.  
But Klaus wasn’t a drug addict.  
He was someone who did drugs, socially. But they weren’t everything he thought about. He didn’t need to do them. He could stop any time. But there was no reason to.  
It wasn’t like anybody noticed.  
It wasn’t like anybody said anything.

Not even a few weeks back, when after a particularly rough night, Grace found him on the kitchen floor, in a pool of his own vomit. She just cleaned him up. Pressed a kiss to his wet forehead.  
“You really need to be more careful.” She had said, with the illusion of a motherly tut.  
His head felt like death, and his smile felt wooden. And he just wanted someone to say something. To acknowledge it, with more than a disappointed cluck.

And then there was the stealing. He had to pay for the drugs somehow, and it wasn’t exactly like he was subtle.  
Subtilty was overrated.  
An antique trinket here, a wad of cash from Luther’s room there. Maybe he should’ve felt guilty, but that never came. Instead he felt innovative, resourceful. He felt hungry for more.  
So he took more, and he got more, and he needed more.

And the ghosts were gone. Well, not entirely. He could still sense them sometimes, feel their presence, hear their muffled cries on occasion. But he was like a blinkered horse, only looking straight ahead. That was where the action was after all.

So seeing as no one cared when he stole, and no one cared when he was high, and probably no one would even care if he did a line in front of them, he was going out.  
He was wearing leather trousers and what had been Allison’s top, although he’d repurposed it, to be smaller and tighter. He hoped she didn’t mind, but it wasn’t like anyone saw him on his twilight trips out. There was yesterday’s makeup, still smeared on his face, and a glance in the mirror at his blurry reflection told him that it was good enough.  
His blood was thumping through his veins, and he could feel that itch building up again, the one that he could never, despite all of his efforts, quite scratch right.  
He wanted deafening music, and bodies packed together, and the smell of cheap perfume and sweat and vodka. He wanted something that would make him feel better than the coke was doing.  
He needed it.

He was taking the stairs, two at a time, when a soft voice startled him. “Klaus?”  
It was only Ben, dressed in his pyjamas, his features twisted into something like morbid concern.

“Jesus! You scared me! I thought I saw a ghost.” Klaus replied, with an ironic smile playing on his lips.

“It’s late, where are you going?”  
Okay. It seemed that Ben was not in the mood to joke. It was too bad, because Klaus wanted to. He wanted to joke, and then he wanted to laugh and laugh and laugh.

“Nowhere, Benny. Go back to bed.”

“You’re all dressed up.”

“All dressed up and nowhere to go. Story of my life!” He waved his arms around, for emphasis, and the bracelets on his wrists jangled.

“Please don’t go.” Ben was practically begging. Klaus could see his bottom lip begin to quiver slightly, could see the start of Ben getting genuinely upset.  
If he was a better brother, a better person, he would have stayed. But he wasn’t.

“I’ll see you in the morning Benny, it’ll be like I was never even gone!”

“Please. I’ll be worried about you.”

“I’m a big boy”, he thumped his own chest lightly for emphasis. “I can take care of myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

Klaus smiled sadly. “But I do.”

And then he kissed his fingertips and waved them in Ben’s direction, hoping that that was a good enough goodbye.  
He slipped out through the front door, and didn’t look back.  
Klaus could stop. But it felt so good to carry on.

  
Klaus didn’t know where he was.  
He remembered the night in blurry snippets.  
He was at the club, drink in hand, weaving through the crowd.  
He was dancing, moving like he was made of air.  
He was in the bathroom, someone holding a key full of white powder.  
He was flying. Actually flying.  
He was kissing someone, or someone was kissing him, against the wall.  
He was dissolving, becoming dust in the night.

He was lying face down, or maybe standing against a flat surface.  
His head was off the side, on a funny angle.  
He couldn’t feel his fingers, or his toes. Or maybe he didn’t have either of those things.  
Something shifted beside him, denting and creaking.  
Something moved over him, resting either side of him.  
He wanted to say something, but his lips weren’t working.  
Something was touching him. Something was saying something. Something was doing something.  
He felt like he was flying again, watching it all happen from afar.  
It didn’t feel good exactly, but it didn’t feel bad either.  
It didn’t feel like much of anything at all.  
He didn’t feel like much of anything at all.  
He felt like he wasn’t made of anything. Like he could just melt into the mattress.

There was a hand on his hip, holding him down, not that he was going anywhere.  
The other hand was moving upwards, over his torso.  
He didn’t know where Allison’s top had gone.  
That made him sad. He liked that top.  
He could feel the steady rhythm of what was happening.  
He just couldn’t quite compute it.  
The hand rested on the base of his neck.  
He quite liked it. It was cool against his hot skin.  
He felt very warm, like he was on fire.  
Then the hand moved, wrapping itself around his neck, and sort of resting there.  
He could feel his own pulse against it.

The hand around his throat tightened.  
It was past bruising at that point.  
He could feel it digging into the sinews under his skin.  
He could feel the tension in the fragile bones of his windpipe.  
He could feel everything, and nothing all at once.  
He was everything, and he was nothing, all at once.  
He closed his eyes.  
He wondered if that would make it easier.

* * *

_The Girl almost runs right over him with Her bicycle.  
He blends right in, so pale and all.  
He looks a little worse for wear, but then he is dead. There comes a point when he will be more dead than alive, and The Girl isn’t looking forward to that. Of course, he always will have a closer relationship with death than most. The Girl does not envy him for that. She and death do not get along all that well. _

_The Girl tries to glare at him, as he sits up, but She isn’t sure how effective it is._

_“What happened?” he mumbles, rubbing at his neck absently._

_“What do you think happened? You died.”_

_“I don’t remember.” He’s puzzled at that, as if the semantics actually matter. For most, they’re dead, and that’s it. He’s the outlier, the one who makes it all the more complicated._

_“Well you really need to take better care of yourself. I wouldn’t want my efforts to go to waste.”  
Fixing his broken body, and slotting his soul back into place isn’t exactly challenging for something as powerful as Her. In fact, She finds talking to him to be the most grating part. _

_“I am taking care of myself. I eat all my fruits and vegetables, and I’ve done at least three press ups since we last met.” He extends an arm in her direction, as if to show off his newfound strength. There are bruises all over his arm, fresh and reddening. She hates when the damaging carries over to Here. It makes all of the nonsense down there seem all the more real._

_He’s smiling, one brow cocked in Her direction. And maybe that’s the problem. He sees this as a meeting, a social occasion, rather than a reckoning.  
Perhaps that’s Her fault. This part of Here is a poor choice of setting for serious matters such as these, after all. She’ll get it right if there’s a next time. _

_“You’re being stupid. And reckless. I don’t value stupidity.”_

_“Then you’re gonna hate Luther!”  
And then a pause. And he stares at Her, blinking slowly.  
“I didn’t mean to die.”_

_“Well, that doesn’t really change the outcome of the matter, does it.”_

_“How did it happen?” He asks, soft as a prayer to some non-existent God._

_She wonders if he remembers it at all. She hopes he doesn’t. Hope is meaningless, a currency of old times. Here it means as little as time itself.  
“Unimportant. You’re still here, much too early for my liking.”_

_“Sorry.”  
He just might mean it. _

_“Sorry doesn’t mean anything. I’m sure you know that by now.”_

_“Okay, I retract my apology then, Jesus.” He smirks. “Are you Jesus?”_

_“I am not having this conversation with you. You’ve wasted enough of my patience.”_

_“That’s a yes, isn’t it?”_

_“Go home.”_

_And he does.  
And if She moved his body back to his own bed before She sent him back, well that’s between Her and Her bicycle._


	5. Chapter 5

It was the worst Klaus had ever felt.   
Even with the drugs, heavy in his veins, he could still feel it.   
It felt like shattering, like splintering, like breaking in two.   
Because Ben was gone.   
Gone. Gone. Gone.   
Ben, his brother, by all accounts, his favourite brother. His most patient brother, his kindest brother, his most fragile brother. He was dead.   
Dead. Dead. Dead.   
The details were hazy, a side effect of the near lethal amount of cocaine he’d taken.   
There was something grotesque about it, raising a key to his dead brother. His brother who was dead. His brother who didn’t exist anymore.   
But Klaus was a master of self-medication, and the coke was softening it slightly, making some lines sharper and some more blurry. It made it more palatable. Not that there was anything palatable about the gaping hole in his chest that Ben left behind. Even with the softness, he could still feel it. The ache. The hollowness. The loss.  
Ben had barely not been for two hours, and Klaus was already crumbling at his foundation.

It only got worse at the funeral, held in the back garden, only a day after Ben died. Oh God, Ben was dead.   
It got worse, because somehow Klaus saw him. He saw Ben, lurking at the edges of their group, sulking in the shadows, hoodie pulled up around his chin, posture poor as ever. The only difference from life was the blood. There was so much blood, drip drip dripping from the hem of his jacket. That and the fact his stomach was caved in. Or out. Klaus couldn’t quite tell. Couldn’t quite tell if the horror tore his brother apart, or if it simply imploded, bringing Ben with it.   
He saw Ben, and he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.   
Because Klaus didn’t see Ben. Not the real Ben.   
He saw a thing, wearing his brother’s face. A thing which would soon be driven insane if it stayed. A thing that would take Klaus spiralling down with it.   
He couldn’t stay.

He turned on his heel, turned away from it, from the thing pretending to be Ben, and stumbled inside, choking back breathless sobs.

He almost didn’t hear Luther scoff, “He’s too high to stay at his own brother’s funeral.”

“Luther.” Diego replied, sadness winning out over aggression for once, “He’s hurting.”

“We’re all hurting, Diego.” Luther had always had a way of twisting Diego’s name up until it sounded like an insult, “We just aren’t all as selfish as him.”

And Klaus supposed that that was true. Stupid. Selfish. Weak.   
He was too bitter and broken to face what remained of his brother, to face what remained of his family.   
It was probably his fault, somehow, what happened to Ben.   
If he was better, if he was less useless, then he would’ve been there. He would’ve stopped it.   
But it’s too little, too late   
Klaus buried his head in his pillow, and ignored the blood gushing in his ears, from a combination of the coke and the adrenaline. And he wished, more than anything, that it was him instead.   
  


And then the worst thing possible happened.

“Klaus?” said a garbled voice.   
It was familiar, but in a way that sent goosebumps racing across Klaus’ skin. It was like a puppeteer doing an impression, enough wrong with it to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.

He looked up, heart thundering sickeningly.

And there was not Ben, standing in the middle of his room. His phantom brother dripping phantom blood onto his carpet.

“Go away.” Klaus snarled, trying to sound more angry than broken. He wondered if those two things were one and the same.

“Klaus. I miss you.” Said not Ben. “I miss all of them. I wish I could’ve said goodbye.”

“I don’t care. You aren’t real. You aren’t Ben.” Klaus babbled, hands coming up instinctively to cover his ears.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m high. I’m high. I’m high. You shouldn’t be here.”

“But I am here.”

“Go away then.” Klaus snapped, and curled up in on himself.

“Klaus…” And the thing that wasn’t Ben sounded almost just like him in that moment, almost as sad and disillusioned as his brother did. Before his brother was dead.

“You aren’t Ben. You aren’t.” He mumbled, more to himself than anything. He curled up into a ball, spine contorted impossibly, eyes screwed shut, hands pressed painfully hard over his ears, as he repeated his mantra.

When he opened his eyes, he was alone.   
And it left him hollower than he was before. It left him with a bitter flavour in his mouth that wasn’t just drip from the coke.

And he was scared. So scared that the thing pretending to be Ben would come back. Even more scared that it wouldn’t.

And how else would Klaus deal with terror than some good old-fashioned self-medication?

The white powder taunted him. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, hopefully some crushed up prescription medication. He held it up to the light, with trembling fingers, as if that would give him an answer. It didn’t.

He wasn’t in the business of mixing uppers and downers. It got dangerous when he did that, especially with the amount of coke he’d taken. Especially when he could almost taste his heartbeat in his mouth.   
But he didn’t want to feel anything. He didn’t want to be anything but numb. He didn’t want to be in a state where seeing not Ben was even a possibility.

So he snorted a line. Then another. Then another. Then another.

And maybe he meant to, deep down. Maybe it was a genuine accident.   
The outcome was the same either way.  
  


* * *

_The Girl doesn’t have Her bicycle this time. It wasn’t actually a thing that She’d had in the first place, but still. The difference is stark. She takes Her time, not that that means anything Here, meandering down the not path, humming a song which doesn’t exist._

_He’s back. He always seems to come back. Like a bad smell, or a boomerang. She wonders if She might have a boomerang. It might amuse Her, for a fleeting moment.  
He’s not wearing his uniform anymore, which is a shame. In a strange way, it was growing on Her. He’s dressed in an outfit that would likely horribly clash, if things Here weren’t the way they are. He’s also openly sobbing, which is a change. An unwelcome change. She hasn’t the patience for the complicated business of human emotions. Especially his. _

_“Hello again.” She says, hoping Her displeasure is clear in Her voice._

_“Is Ben here?” He asks, glancing down at Her with desperate, red rimmed eyes.  
She wonders when that happened. When it switched from Her looking down at him. She supposes that it doesn’t really matter.   
“Where is he?” And then he begins to yell. “Ben?! Ben?!”_

_It’s very loud indeed. All he’s doing is disturbing Her peace. She doesn’t tolerate that sort of thing, not Here._

_“Oh do be quiet. Your brother isn’t here. He’s down there still.”_

_“He is?”_

_“Yes. Now I really don’t have the time for this.”  
Again, that isn’t strictly true. She has as much time as She wants to have. The issue lies in the lack of wanting, not the lack of time. _

_“He can’t stay.”_

_“Oh, can’t he?” She places a hand on Her hip, and holds his gaze. If anything, that seems to embolden him further. Why he thinks he’s in any position to make demands, She isn’t quite sure._

_“Please. Just bring him here. Please. Please. I can’t watch him become like them.”_

_And it’s all in the semantics. He’s not unable to watch what will happen to his brother if he stays, he’s unwilling. Although with humans, it largely amounts to the same thing._

_And then She has a thought. It’s a big concession, that’s for sure. Especially for someone She doesn’t like all that much. But She can’t see him staying down there for long, not if his brother is gone for good. And he really needs to stay. The human soul shouldn’t really be stretched this far, even one as springy as his. It gets very complicated, later down the line, and She’d really rather not deal with that sort of thing if She can help it. Besides, he has a job to do in the down below, one that comes later._

_“Fine then. He won’t.”_

_“What?”_

_“He won’t become like them. Now will you go back.”  
It’s not a question. She doesn’t care if he says no, he’s going either way. _

_“You can do that? Just like that?”_

_“Sure. I can do anything I like.”_

_“What will he be, if he’s not a ghost?”_

_“He is a ghost. He’ll just be a different kind of ghost.”  
She always ends up having to spell it out. _

_“Well then.”  
He doesn’t thank Her, which She supposes is rather pragmatic of him. He doesn’t yet know what he would be thanking Her for. _

_“Are you going to go back without a fuss then?”_

_He swallows heavily, shrugging something invisible off his shoulders. She watches him closely.  
“Yeah, guess I am.”_

_“Good. Try to stay for a bit longer next time, won’t you?”_

_He smiles, a wicked grin, one that strangely suits him. “I’m not making any promises.”_

_And in a flash of indistinct colour. He’s gone, yet again.  
She wonders how long it will stick for this time. _


	6. Chapter 6

It was snowing, a rarity for early October.   
Klaus loved the snow, he had always had.   
He loved the performance of it all, the flurry of white, blindingly bright across the sky. He loved thick winter coats, usually Allison’s, because it was much nicer, and the hot chocolate that Grace made, with marshmallows and whipped cream. He loved the way it settled, loved leaving footprints, and handprints, and whole body prints, in it. He loved the way it used to make his father’s monocle fog up, when they came back inside from the cold, loved the way it used to collect in the wrinkles on Pogo’s forehead. He loved the way it got churned up on the road, leaving a thick grey sludge behind.   
Klaus was dreaming of a white Christmas.

In fact, he was smiling, so wide that his jaw ached.   
He wasn’t quite high enough to not feel the cold, but he was high enough to enjoy it.   
He stuck his tongue out, catching a snowflake there, and letting it melt away into nothing.   
His breath left misty smudges across the air, and he wasn’t even smoking anything.  
An old woman in a green coat gave him a very strange look.   
He waved at her, with his GOODBYE hand. He hoped she got the message.

“I’m cold.” He told Ben.

“You don’t have any shoes on.” Ben pointed out, scathingly.

Klaus looked down, and his blue toes looked back at him.   
Blue was not the colour that feet were supposed to be.

“Well that won’t do! I can’t walk around with no shoes on, people will think I’m some sort of vagrant.”

“You are a vagrant.” Ben replied, very rudely. What a horrible thing to say to a person.

“My own brother! What happened to family first?” He waved his arms around, doing his best to look affronted.

The old lady in the green coat gave him an even stranger look.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” He hollered, across the street.   
She hurried away.

“That wasn’t very nice.” Ben said, like he was the moral compass cricket in that puppet movie Klaus had forgotten the name of.

“She wasn’t very nice.”

“She was a little old lady.”

“Are you saying that old people have to be nice? You’re really putting them in a box there.”

“You can’t just shout at people in the street.” Ben said, like that was law of the land. Klaus was no legal expert, but he was pretty sure that that wasn’t the case.

“I’d like to see you stop me.”

“You weren’t this annoying when I was alive.”

Klaus nodded sagely. “Death changes people Benny. I’m a man of the world now, living on the mean streets. I had to toughen up to survive.”

“Sure you did.” Ben rolled his eyes, again, very rudely.

“You weren’t this mean when you were alive.”

“Death changes people.”

“You dick! Stealing my lines from me.” Klaus exclaimed, a little louder than necessary.

While they were bickering, they paced almost a full block’s length, and Klaus’ feet were well and truly numb. The rest of him wasn’t quite as numb as he would’ve liked, but that was nothing that a trip to one of his dealers couldn’t fix.

“Sit here.” Ben instructed suddenly. “The heating unit for the shop is right by that wall.”

“How do you know that.”  
Klaus sat down obediently, before Ben could even answer. Sometimes it was better to pick his battles.

“I know everything.”

“Where’s Five?” Klaus asked, partly to be dick, and partly because he genuinely wondered.

“I know nearly everything.”

“Yeah yeah.” Klaus leaned against the bricks, unwilling to admit that Ben might have been right about the whole heating thing. “Keeping talking, ghost boy.”

He was only there for about ten minutes, huddled up in a sort of crooked way, his hands tucked under his knees, when a woman approached him.

“Excuse me sir?”

Klaus smirked. Sir. No one had ever called him Sir before.   
Someone was calling him Sir and he didn’t even have any shoes on.

“How can I help you?” He replied, because Grace taught him manners.

“Can I get you something?” The woman motioned at the coffee shop. Her smile was genuine, but full of pity. Klaus didn’t mind the pity as much as some. He never really had any pride for it to wound in the first place.

She looked nice. Well to do. But Klaus knew not to judge a book by its cover. He glanced at Ben, who was sitting cross legged beside him, to get his opinion.   
The woman’s eyes followed, and when she saw his feet, her smile sort of fell.

“Yes please.” He said, model of politeness.

“What would you like?”

“What would I like?” He asked Ben, because making decisions suddenly felt very difficult.

“Get a hot drink.” Ben instructed.

“Can I ask for a hot chocolate do you think?” Klaus mused. It was probably a more expensive drink than say coffee (which was gross), or tea (which wasn’t sweet or strong enough).

“You can ask for whatever you want.” Said the woman, with a deepening frown.

“A hot chocolate then please.”

She nodded slowly, attempting a smile.

“She probably thinks you’re crazy. A crazy homeless guy who talks to himself.” Ben pointed out, like the jerk he was.

Then the woman disappeared inside the shop across the road, and Klaus made the executive decision to stay put. He didn’t want to crowd her, in case she changed her mind. He really hoped she wouldn’t. He was looking forward to that hot chocolate.

The lady came back, drink in hand, as promised.

“Thank you very much.” He said, without Ben even having to prompt him.

She handed it to him with a smile, and he quickly spread his fingers around it, doing his best to sap up every bit of warmth it emitted.

He glanced up, and she was still loitering there, chewing her lip sort of nervously.   
“Do you know the nearest shelter is?”

“Yes.” He replied, because he did.

“You could go there tonight, get out of the cold.”  
He blinked slowly, and exchanged a look with Ben. It was strange for anyone to care so much about his well-being, least of all a perfect stranger. Most people just walked right past.

“They won’t take me anymore.”  
It involved a particularly bad trip, and a lot of blood, very little of which was his.

“Oh.” She looked quite sad at that. Klaus didn’t want to see her sad. She seemed nice enough.

“It’s alright. We don’t mind being outside. The sunrises are lovely this time of year.”  
Ben was the sunrise nerd. Klaus was usually (hopefully) too high to even fully notice them.

“I bet they are.” She fiddled with the hem of her coat, seeming to be in deep thought. “Can I at least get you some shoes?”

“What.”  
It was starting to creep him out a little bit. The woman was taking the whole ‘Good Samaritan’ thing to a crazy extreme.

“She wants to get you some shoes.” Even Ben sounded a little sceptical.

“I know she does, I just don’t know why.”

“Please. It’s the least I could do. They have some winter boots in Goodwill.”

“Well okay then.” Klaus was unwilling to question the kindness he was being shown, half afraid it would suddenly be retracted.

Ten minutes, and one ugly pair of boots later, Klaus smiled at the woman. He was sharper than sometimes, but he still couldn’t quite manage to look her directly in the eye.

“Thank you.”

The woman smiled, a little sadder this time. “My daughter, she was—well, she found herself in a similar place to you. I was too late for her, but well--if I can help someone, then that would be enough.”

Klaus nodded, as if he understood.

“If someone had done something for her, maybe it would be different.”

“Maybe.” He agreed, noncommittally.

“You take care. Please.”

“I will.” He lied. He almost felt bad about it.

Later that evening, with a few bumps of something strong heavy in his blood and his boots laced tightly around his ankles, and something like nostalgia deep in his chest, he found himself at a phone booth.

“Just press call.” Ben prompted, as if it was as simple as that.

“What if she doesn’t answer?”

“Then you’ve not lost anything by trying.” Ben replied, attempting to be pragmatic.

He wouldn’t have lost anything, except his hope and his dignity, and his sister.

He pressed call.

“Hello?” said a familiar, refined voice.

“Hey Ally.”

“Oh.” The voice became a little flatter. “Hi Klaus.”

“Long time no speak!”

“Yeah, it has been.” She sounded slightly bored, but then again she was never amazing on the phone.

“How are you? How’s life in LA? How’s acting? How’s striking out on your own? Finally being free. Free, not three. You’ve always been three.”

He laughed at his own joke.   
Allison didn’t laugh back.

“It’s fine. It’s good actually. I’m meeting lots of people, you know, making connections.”  
That was code for rumouring herself up the food chain. Klaus didn’t blame her. He would’ve if he could’ve.

“That’s good to hear. Good, good, good.” He repeated, in a strange sort of rhythm.

“What can I do for you?” She sounded so cold. When did she get so cold?

“What do you mean?”

“I assume you need something, that’s why you’re calling.”

“No. Why would you think that?”  
There’s plenty of reasons why she would think that. The calls from jail, the calls asking for money, the calls from rehab. Klaus was fine though, really. He didn’t need anyone’s help, but there wasn’t any harm in asking.

“Okay. Why are you calling them?”

“I missed you. And it’s snowing.” He paused, hoping the significance of the second part of what he said sunk in. Hoping she remembered.

“I miss you too.” She didn’t sound like she meant it, or like she cared.

“Is it snowing in LA?” His voice broke slightly.

“We don’t really get that over here.”

“Oh.” He swallowed heavily.

A rustling sounded over the speaker, like she was gathering something up. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

“Okay.”

“Speak soon, alright.”

He blinked slowly. His eyelids felt heavy. “Alright. I love you.”

The dial tone sounded. She’d hung up on him. She probably hadn’t heard him, he reasoned. Allison was fed up with him, but she wasn’t that mean.

  
It still left him with a pit in his stomach, something that chilled him right down to his bones.   
She didn’t want to talk to him, that much was clear. He was clearly still just shitty, selfish, needy Klaus. He still clearly wasn’t even worth the time of day. He thought of the stranger, who bought him a pair of shoes. He thought of his own sister, who didn’t even ask him how he was.   
He felt like he was about to start crying.

“She was probably just busy.” Ben said.

Klaus didn’t reply.

In fact, he didn’t speak to Ben until much later into the night, when he was curled up by warm brick wall, and tears were sliding down his face with every blink.

“They hate me. Don’t they?”

Ben took a long time to reply, and when he did, his words were careful. “They don’t hate you. They just don’t know you.”

“If they did, I’m sure they’d hate me more.”

Ben didn’t reply to that, which only made him feel worse.

He was numb. Number than numb.   
And wasn’t it ironic, that as the snow started to fall, and his body was pressed against the concrete pavement, that the coldest thing of all was his own sister’s words?

* * *

_The Girl hums to Herself, as She meanders down the path.  
She’s a busy being, as far as beings go. And he’s taking up far too much of Her attention. She shouldn’t be having to do this at all, let alone as often as She does. But the whole thing, the whole charade of it all, it doesn’t annoy Her as much as it should. Hence the humming. _

_His skin is slightly blue, in a way that reminds Her of their first encounter. Time moves strangely Here, so She can’t quite pin whether that encounter has happened, is about to happen, or is happening simultaneously with this one. No matter._

_“I died.” He says, sounding disappointed, and more than a little put out._

_“That you did.”_

_“How?”_

_“How do you think?” She pauses, taking stock of his genuine bemusement. “You froze to death.”_

_“But I had my winter boots.” He whines, motioning at the pair of black, combat style boots on his feet, as if they make a lick of difference._

_“For goodness sake. You’re going to have to get yourself together a little more than that if you want to carry on being alive.”_

_“Who says I want to carry on?” He replies flippantly._

_She scoffs in disbelief. She’s never encountered a soul as hardwired towards survival as his before. She doubts she ever will again.  
“I do. And besides, you don’t get any say in the matter. You’re going back, whether you like it or not.”_

_He holds up his hands, as if accepting defeat. “Alright Bradley Wiggins, calm it down.”_

_She blinks at him._

_“Because the bike--- it’s a clever nickname--- you know what? Forget it. What’s your actual name?”_

_She stares at him. No one’s ever asked Her that before. “Why would I tell you that?”_

_“Because we’re friends. Best friends even. Come on you—”_

_She runs out of patience very quickly. He has that effect on her. Before he can finish, and in a blinding flash of light, She sends him back again._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for domestic abuse 
> 
> (will be better at tagging warnings)

Klaus hummed a song he didn’t fully know as he waited for the water to boil.   
Ben was saying something in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t hear it over the blood rushing in his ears.   
He felt amazing.   
He felt warm, and sated, and his insides weren’t coiling and crumbling and screaming for once.   
And when the water was done boiling, he was going to make himself a cup of hot chocolate.   
And then it would really feel like Christmas.   
He just had to wait for the water to finish boiling.   
He watched the bubbles dancing in the pan, rising to the surface then vanishing in a cloud of steam. He huddled closer to the steaming pan, letting it tickle against his face. He’d heard somewhere once that steam was good for your pores. He used to have amazing skin, there was only about six months where it looked a bit touch and go with the spots. But over the years, it had become papery, it felt so delicate in places that he reckoned it would tatter and tear in the wind.

He lifted up the pan, which took more effort than he thought it would. It sent a sharp pain shooting down through his elbow, which was unpleasant. But it was more than that. Since when did his arms get so weak?   
Ben said something else, but he was too busy focusing on the task at hand to pay him any mind. He was probably just annoyed that he couldn’t have any.  
Klaus poured the water carefully into the mug he’d set on the counter. Steam rose in a spiral in the air. The pan was heavy heavy heavy, and his fingers sort of ached.   
Why did everything ache?  
Just as he was contemplating that, they stopped aching, all of a sudden, like a switch had been flipped. They didn’t even feel like they were attached to his body anymore.   
And that’s when he lost control. (Not that he really had it in the first place).   
The pan dropped, hitting one of his feet. Hot water splashed across his bare torso. The mug shattered on the ground.   
It should’ve hurt. It should’ve made him sad, or angry, or annoyed.   
But Klaus didn’t feel anything at all.   
  


“What the fuck is happening”  
Nick’s tone was light, but he had that look in his eyes again. A look that could turn dangerous. A look that would turn dangerous. Klaus swallowed dryly.

“I’m making hot chocolate.”  
He had to sort of lean against the countertop to stay upright. There was a funny feeling spreading across the outside of his stomach, like something bubbling up. Maybe that was how Ben felt with the Horror.

“Well you’ve made a fucking mess, haven’t you?”

Klaus wasn’t quite sure.

Nick stalked closer, until he was right up in Klaus’ face, practically pressed against him. He smelt nice, like lemon shampoo and cigarettes.   
“Haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Klaus said, because that seemed like the right answer. Seemed like the answer that Nick wanted.

“And what do you say?”

That part was easy. That part was basically a script.   
“Sorry.”

“Why can’t you do anything right?”  
Nick’s grip on his arm was bruising. His paper skin was probably ripping apart. Nick’s pupils were pinpricks. That probably meant something.   
And it was a valid question. Stupid, selfish, useless Number Four. He couldn’t even make a hot chocolate right. He ruined things. He ruined everything. He deserved it. He deserved what was coming to him.

“I don’t know.”  
  


He was laying in the bed, an immeasurable amount of time later.   
Nick wasn’t there, but Klaus didn’t want to move.   
Moving had become a lot harder as of late.   
Especially after last night.

He could’ve lain there forever, if not for the full body aching, if not for the painful, hollow feeling that started to open in his chest. If not for the rising feeling of being unable to catch his breath, in part due to the hoarse roughness in his throat.  
He dry swallowed some loose pills from the nightstand. He didn’t know what they were. It didn’t really matter.   
The cavern in his chest settled.   
He dragged his aching body from the bed, and tipped his head under the tap, gulping the water as it came. It tasted of chlorine.   
He turned quickly, wanting to avoid his reflection, because it would only make him sad, and there was nothing he could do about it.   
Turning quickly ended up being a bad move, because he couldn’t stop turning, and he ended up on the ground.

“Klaus. Klaus? Get up. Klaus, you need to get up.”  
Ben sounded a million miles away.   
The bathroom floor was cold. Why was it so cold? Klaus was supposed to be warm.

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”  
Ben sounded so sad. Why was he always so sad lately? Klaus did what he wanted. He found a place to sleep, a roof over his head. Wasn’t that what Ben had wanted him to do?

“I wanna stay here.”  
He couldn’t even convince himself with the lie.

  
He got up, some time later. It took longer than it should’ve.   
He didn’t like his reflection. He hadn’t for a while, but this was worse somehow.   
There were bruises, scattered across his skin, wrapped around his arms and his hips. And fresh, shiny burns, spread across his pale stomach. And track marks, branded onto the inside of his elbows. Between them, and the greasy weight of his hair, his blurry tattoos, his translucent skin, his dull sunken eyes, he didn’t look like himself anymore. He didn’t look like a person anymore.

Maybe it was because the shooting up had gotten worse, since he’d started staying with Nick.   
Or maybe it had gotten better. More is better, right?  
It was just so easy, and it felt so good. And when Nick was in a good mood, he’d help him, and that made it easier still. He’d tighten the lace and pick the vein, and carefully, carefully push the needle in. He was rarely that careful. Klaus would lean into the casual touch and pretend that that was the real drug.

But it wasn’t enough.   
And it might’ve been ruining him.   
Klaus looked like one of those dead things he’d been scared of his whole life.   
And that was fucking terrifying.

“I need to leave, don’t I?”

He looked his reflection in the eyes, and his reflection didn’t blink back.   
He wasn’t stupid. Klaus was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He knew that it was bad. Knew that it was beyond bad. He liked to pretend that it was all okay, that he was all okay. But it wasn’t. Nick didn’t love him. Nick hurt him, over and over. And Klaus wasn’t capable of love. But he needed it. He needed the touches, and the warmth, and the fleeting moments of something good. He needed the drugs. He needed the drugs more than he needed oxygen.   
Did he need to leave more than all that?

Ben nodded.

“I don’t know how.”

“Just go Klaus. We can figure it out. Diego will let us stay with him, at least for a bit.”

Klaus blinked at his reflection again. His reflection’s response was delayed, lagging behind. Or maybe he was the one lagging?   
Ben was probably right. Klaus didn’t look well. Klaus wasn’t well. And Diego wasn’t a monster. Nick might’ve been.

“Okay.”

Ben smiled, for the first time in a long time.

  
Klaus was almost free when Nick came home.   
He’d been moving more slowly than he should’ve, partly because he couldn’t feel his bones, and partly because he could feel his skin, and his skin hurt.   
He had his nice coat on, and his winter boots, although his fingers wouldn’t work to lace them. He was filling his pockets with food from the cupboards, having already ransacked every place he knew drugs were hidden.   
And then Nick walked into the kitchen.

“Klaus.”   
Klaus’ blood ran cold. He’d never understood that expression until that precise moment.

“What are you doing?”

Nick sounded drunk. His words were slightly clipped, slightly hazy around the edges. Klaus wished he was drunk. For the first time in a while, despite the whatever in his system, he felt mind numbingly, terrifyingly sober.

“Nothing, I—”

“Doesn’t fucking look like nothing, does it?”  
Nick was right behind him. Klaus wasn’t quite sure when that had happened. He didn’t want to turn around.

“No, I—”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”  
Nick pressed his body right into Klaus’, boxing him in, and Klaus’ sharp hips pressed painfully into the countertop. He couldn’t move.

“No.”  
He couldn’t see Ben. Why couldn’t he see Ben? Whey would Ben leave him, right now, when he needed him the most?

“Then why are you lying to me?”  
Klaus was a liar. Always had been, always would be. It ran in the family.

“I’m not, I—”

“Lying and stealing? After everything I’ve done for you?”  
Nick was whispering, right in his ear. There was something chillingly intimate about it. He had Klaus’ arm pinned behind his back, twisted painfully. Klaus didn’t know how he was going to get out of this one. Nick twisted his arm further, and he could feel his bones again, for a fleeting second. He whimpered.

“You’re hurting me.”

“You deserve it.” Nick replied, without a moment of hesitation.

Klaus felt that pit, opening up in his chest again, but this time it was one that drugs couldn’t even begin to fill.   
“I know.”

  
What happened next was sort of blurry. Klaus felt himself begin to crumble, begin to come apart at the seams. Because he did deserve it. He must’ve deserved it. Because everyone else was happy, and healthy, and fucking normal. And he’d never been like that. It must’ve been some fucked up punishment, probably from the little girl in the sky herself. He was crazy. He was pathetic. He was weak. He was a waste.   
And as he felt a silent, painful, scream bubbling up in his chest, Nick grabbed his hair, ripping him backwards. Klaus overbalanced, and hit the ground, hard.   
He was dizzy, he was reeling.   
He was made of pain.

And then Nick was on top of him, straddling either side of his already broken body.   
He wished he could throw Nick across the room, or put one of the kitchen knives to good use, or hear a rumour that Nick went away and never came back, or teleport away, or open up his stomach and let a monster free, or just be normal and not like this in the first place.   
But he couldn’t.

Nick was hitting him, and hitting him, and hitting him.   
His skin split, and his bones cracked, and his eyes rolled back in his skull.

It might’ve been the worst death of all, because he felt every molecule of pain, right until the bitter end.

* * *

  
_  
The Girl almost finds Herself startled at how dead he looks.  
There are no degrees of being dead, by any means. You either are, or you aren’t. Or you’re him.   
But this time, this time he looks every bit like the corpse he should be. _

_He’s still smiling though, which is somewhat unnerving, beneath the tattered gore that his face has become. It contrasts sharply with his eyes, which are dull and flat beneath the swelling.  
He looks a lot worse for wear, life has really put him through the wringer, in a way that death never would. _

_“Hey! Long time, no see!”  
His voice is brimming with false cheer. _

_“Not long enough.”_

_“Is that any way to greet your oldest and dearest friend?”_

_The Girl shifts Her weight to the other side of Her bike, in a charade of not losing Her balance._

_“Your arrogance continues to astound me.”_

_“Astounding is what I do!”  
He accompanies it with jazz hands, and She can see the limpness of his wrists, the strange angle they fall at. It makes the gesture seem all the more disingenuous. _

_“That much is clear.”  
She replies, with not much thought behind Her words. He is astounding, and he continues to be so, in the best and worst ways possible. _

_His face falls slightly, and She isn’t quite sure what She’s said to garner that reaction.  
“I would’ve lived. If I’d got out sooner. If I’d been braver.”_

_“There are a million,” well, not quite a million, but he doesn’t seem like he’d particularly care for specifics, “possibilities for what could’ve been. The only thing that matter is what is.”_

_He doesn’t look like he understands, but he nods, regardless. “And I’m dead.”_

_“Temporarily.”_

_He laughs, humourlessly. “You aren’t going to shout at me? Give me a lecture about being careless.”_

_She winces. “I may not like you, but I’m not a monster.”_

_“Am I a monster?” He says it barely above a whisper, but sound tends to carry Here. It makes Her feel something that She isn’t entirely comfortable with._

_“Why would you say that?”_

_“I ruin everything. Everything I touch goes to shit.”  
She is not equipped for him to have some sort of a mental breakdown Here. Nor does She particularly want to witness it._

_“I’m not here to give you a pep talk. That’s simply not my job. But I can tell you that you’re incorrect. More so than you realise at the moment.” The words are somewhat of a struggle, but She gets them out._

_He stares at her for a long moment, with deep scrutiny. “I have a feeling that that’s the best that you can do, so thank you.”_

_“You can thank me by staying alive a little longer next time.”_

_He scoffs, but She can see the spark of something joking in his eyes. Even that makes him look less like a corpse, and more like something that could be alive again. “Wow. Way to blame the victim.” He pauses, seeming to be deep in thought again. “Will things get better?”_

_She considers it. There’s no delicate way to put it. There’s pain ahead, in every possible outcome. No matter what path he takes, things will get a lot worse before they get better.  
“Eventually.”_

_“That sounds like another way of saying no.”_

_She bristles slightly at that, even though She knows he’s joking. She does not like to be accused of untruths. “If I meant no, I’d say no.”_

_“Alright. Eventually it is then.”_

_She sends him back, in a gesture that is becoming all too familiar.  
Her only thought is that eventually can’t come soon enough. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might be my favourite chapter ive written so far


	8. Chapter 8

Klaus was high with a capital H. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d taken. Maybe a pill, or a line, or a needle. Diego wouldn’t have had anything from a needle. Diego wouldn’t have had anything at all. So stern and serious.   
Klaus always thought he needed to loosen up a little.

They were squashed inside a little diner booth, and Klaus’ legs were all folded over themselves like origami. His knees felt sort of funny, sort of wobbly, like a jelly cup at hospital. He tried not to think about it. Hospitals weren’t his very favourite place to be. But neither was this little diner booth, with his legs all squashed, and Diego’s eyes all sad, his jaw all clenched. Klaus should’ve felt like he was soaring, but instead his skin was sort of itching from the inside, and his fingers weren’t quite responding right.   
They sort of contorted and shook slightly when he tried to raise his hand, morphing and shaking like a spider. He imagined having two spiders attached to the end of his arms, and then wished he hadn’t. Maybe he wouldn’t have minded it. Spiders have lots of eyes, and Klaus liked eyes. Windows to the soul. They also have their skeleton on the outside. Klaus didn’t like the sound of that as much. He tried to imagine his bones on the outside and shuddered at the thought. He could sort of see his ribs through his skin sometimes (all the time), and the feeling of them, even with the papery layers of tissue on top, made bile rise in his throat. No spiders for him.

Diego had just said something. Klaus saw his lips moving, his white, white teeth catching the light. Klaus used to have nice teeth. But then they became sort of jaggedy up close, and they ached all the time, in a way that bits of bone, or whatever teeth are made of, shouldn’t have ached.

“Are you even listening to me?”  
Diego sounded angry. He was always angry. Angry angry number two. Always brooding, always sulking. And there wasn’t anything for him to be angry about. He had nice teeth, and his hands weren’t even spiders.

“Klaus.” Ben said, warningly.

Klaus jumped like he’d seen a ghost. Which was funny, because he had.   
He laughed. Diego didn’t.

“What the fuck are you even on? It’s barely 8am.” Diego hissed.

“Five o’clock somewhere.” Klaus hummed in response. And then, because he thought Diego might know the answer, “Is Five somewhere?”

Diego stared at him, something hollow in his eyes. “I don’t know. No one knows.”

“No. One knows!” Klaus repeated, in a different sort of rhythm. “Maybe Luther does know. We should ask him.”

“He doesn’t.” Diego replied, back to anger again.

Klaus never felt that angry, not unless he took the wrong balance of uppers and downers, and then he was up up up and down down down, and he felt all prickly and fragile, like a glass vase or something.

“Are you going to eat that?” Diego asked, motioning at the waffles in front of Klaus.

“I just want to savour the flavour.” Klaus replied, sing song. He took a bite, with an attempted flourish of his wrist. It was nice for a moment, and then it disintegrated, coating his teeth in a thick, gummy layer. It tasted how sand felt. He spat it out, because he knew that eating sand was bad. Sand was made of millions of crushed up little seashells, all jumbled up together. Klaus was eating a million little creatures houses.

“That’s disgusting.” Ben informed him.

“Shut up Benny. You’re disgusting.” Klaus retorted. It wasn’t a great comeback, but it still shut Ben up.

Or maybe it was the on Diego’s face.   
Diego looked sort of sad again. Klaus wasn’t sure how he kept flip flopping between feelings like that, especially when the only thing Klaus felt was numb.

“Ben?” he said, in a heavy voice.

“He’s always around. I don’t know what for.”  
And Klaus laughed again. What for. What Four. What Four?

“You know he’s not real.” It wasn’t a question.

Klaus turned to Ben, who just looked confused.

“When were you gonna tell me?” Klaus asked, mock affronted.

“Why would I not be real?”

“You’re dead. You aren’t real anymore.” Klaus reminded him, sort of snidely.   
Diego made a strange sound in the back of his throat.   
“Were any of us even real in the first place?” Klaus continued sagely.

“You sound crazy.” Ben informed him, in that overly helpful tone he sometimes adopted. Klaus called it going maximum prick.

“I am crazy.” Klaus paused for effect, “But at least I’m not dead.”

“Small mercies.”

Diego stood up suddenly, lurching backwards and bumping his legs on the back of the bench. He motioned at the waitress. “I’ll pay for this.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll see you around Klaus, okay?”

“Where are you going?”  
He said again, because he couldn’t remember if it was actually out loud last time.

“I can’t do this. Not today.”

“I think we pissed him off.” Said Klaus, to Ben.

“We? This is all you. He can’t even see me.”

Klaus bared his teeth at Ben, in absence of a real response.

And then to Diego. “Do what? We’re having a chat, Brother bonding.”

“I can’t deal with this. I can’t deal with you.”

“Imagine how I feel.” Joked Ben.

Klaus didn’t respond to that, mostly because it made his breath sort of catch, shallow in his chest. He knew he was a lot, but it made him sort of sad, even through the numbness, that his own brother couldn’t even cope with it for breakfast.

“It was you who wanted to meet me.” He reminded Diego.   
He was perfectly fine by himself (with Ben), then Diego had to swoop in and play the hero, and make him feel bad just for living his life. So what if he was off his face at 8am? It’s not as if he’d slept in days anyway. He was like a vampire or something, the walking dead.

“I bailed you out of jail, Klaus.”  
Diego muttered, as if Klaus didn’t know that already. He did know that. It wasn’t his fault that it had slipped his mind for a moment. Mind like a sieve he had. Things were forever overflowing and slipping out.

“He did, you know. Drunk and disorderly.”  
Ben kept track of his growing criminal record. Very nice of him really.

“That’s not a real crime.” Klaus bit back. Just because something alliterates, doesn’t make it a fact. Klaus wondered if he should write that down, it sounded like one of those inspirational sayings.

“I’m glad you’re okay Klaus, but this is fucking exhausting.”

Klaus gasped, throwing a hand up to his mouth. He did it a little too hard, and it sort of clunked against his teeth. Number Two swearing? He must’ve been in a bad mood.

“Huh?”

“I can’t keep sending you to rehab, and bailing you out, and letting you crash at my place and having you rob me. It’s not good for me, and I’m enabling you.”  
It sounded like a script. Klaus wondered if Diego had written it all out in advance. It didn’t sound like something he would do, but neither did this. Maybe there was a director, hiding behind the counter, and he’d pop up and say ‘cut’ and then it would all be over.

“Are you breaking up with me?” Klaus responded, mock affronted, playing up the dramatics for the imaginary cameras.

“You can’t even take this fucking seriously. It’s exhausting.” Diego repeated, for emphasis, or just to salt the wound.

Ben scoffed behind him. Klaus didn’t quite know what the sound meant, or who it was directed at, but he supposed that it didn’t make much difference either way.

“Imagine how I feel.”

Diego looked like he was about to cry. Why was he crying? He wasn’t the one getting brother broken up with. Another alliteration. That one was less funny somehow.   
“Goodbye Klaus.”

And then his brother was gone.

  
He left the diner ten minutes after Diego, having stared blankly into space, ignoring Ben for enough time. The $20 he slipped from Diego’s wallet was crumpled in his hand.   
Ben had tried to get him to finish the waffles, but he wasn’t even hungry. He hadn’t been hungry in the first place, but Diego was right there, and it was best not to bite the hand that (literally) feeds you. The hand that fed you.

“Klaus, he’s just in a bad mood, it’s not a big deal.” Ben lied.

“Go away. Haunt someone else.” Klaus said, in painful monotone.

He bought some uppers, because he was tired of feeling down down down.  
Tired of being “fucking exhausting”.  
Tired of using his brother’s money to buy drugs. Tired of having his brother bail him out of jail. Tired of not being enough, tired of being too much.   
Tired of being confused by every thought that rattled around in his head.

He slotted himself behind a dumpster in an alleyway, his favourite alleyway to be exact, folding his bare legs up by his chin, pressed against the cold metal.   
It seeped into his bones, right through his winter coat. His favourite and only winter coat.

He counted the pills out into his palm, but lost count at about six. And didn’t that feel ironic? Ben was gone, or at least gone from his eyeline. He always hated watching Klaus take drugs. It made it easier somehow. Less like he was letting someone down.

He took them all at once, dry swallowing them past the lump in his throat.   
Maybe that was his real superpower, his ability to swallow tablets without water.

And it felt like flying. It felt like soaring high high high in the sky.   
Until it didn’t.   
Until he was falling, faster and faster.   
He never landed.

* * *

_The Girl sighs heavily. The trees shake as She does so. Things Here are in a delicate balance, to say the least, and the tension She’s feeling effects everything.  
She effects everything. And yet She has almost no impact on this. Almost no impact on him.   
He’s thinner now, even more impossibly gangly, with skin draped over bone. He’s grey. Everything here is grey, but he’s greyer than grey somehow.   
He holds up his HELLO hand and gives Her a lopsided smile. _

_“Hey angel.” He pauses, for dramatic effect. “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”_

_“Hello again.” She responds, curtly. She’s no more or less in the mood to deal with him than usual, which isn’t exactly an endorsement._

_“Rude. Not answering my question.” He pouts, as if he’s taken genuine offence._

_“Rude of you to die again, when I explicitly told you not to.” She snaps back, in spite of herself. It’s unseemly for a being like Her to bicker with a human, but She just can’t seem to help Herself._

_“It’s like you think I’m doing it on purpose.”_

_She purses her lips, and stares him down, leaving it unsaid._

_He changes tracks, as if to distract her. “Am I annoying?”_

_“Yes. Incredibly so.”_

_He gasps, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded. “You couldn’t even pretend to lie?”_

_“I don’t lie.” She lies._

_“I do.”_

_“Yes. All humans lie, you aren’t special.” She lies again.  
He is special. More than he seems to realise. _

_“I annoyed him.”_

_She could play dumb, pretend not to know the ‘him’ that is being referred to. But feigning ignorance is below bickering, on the list of things she wants to do. “You did.”_

_“I didn’t mean to, I think I just have that effect.” He continues, with a slight wobble in his voice. She pretends not to notice._

_“Intention and result don’t always correlate.”_

_“Just like how I meant to get high, and instead I got dead.” He snaps back._

_She pretends to blink, as She stares him down again. The not blinking aspect can be unnerving to humans, and She doesn’t want him agitated, on top of being petty and childish.  
This whole thing has taken a sudden, and strange, turn for the worse, and She does not like it one bit. _

_“Just like that.”_

_“Don’t look at me like that.”_

_She pauses for a beat, half in disbelief. “Are you telling me what to do?”  
No one tells Her what to do. Ever. _

_“I hate when people look at me like I’ve disappointed them.” He spits back, with none of the respect She deserves present in his voice._

_“I hate when people disappoint me.” She responds, trying to ignore the anger rolling around, as it sends tremors through the not ground beneath their feet._

_His jaw snaps shut._

_“Send me back then. If you’re that sick of me.”_

_She could bite back some scathing response, but it’s gone too far already. This shouldn’t be how She communicates, not even with him. She’s belittling Herself, allowing Herself to be dragged down to his level, and it’s embarrassing, even for a being like Her, who barely even knows what that means.  
She decides not to respond, instead shooting him one last glare, and vanishing him in a haze of light. She sets off back down the path, and the cobblestones twist and crumble to dust as She goes, as She lets Her anger get the better of Her, hopefully for the last time. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's only like 4 more chapters left (only so many times I can murder poor Klaus)

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as one of those 5 + 1 times Klaus died or something, and it's become this kind of strange character study of Klaus and of God, so that's fun!
> 
> Talk to me on tumblr!! @gooseonthe-loose


End file.
